


Cinnamon, with All Trees of Frankincense

by Tenukii



Series: Good Omens [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Extended Scene, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 05:37:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19144627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tenukii/pseuds/Tenukii
Summary: “I do not,” growled Crowley, “smell like burnt cinnamon toast.”





	Cinnamon, with All Trees of Frankincense

**Author's Note:**

> A silly little continuation of the scene that ends episode 1. The title is from Song of Solomon 4:14.

After they had sat drinking in apprehensive silence a few moments, Aziraphale asked, “So what _do_ I smell like, then?”

“What?” replied Crowley in a distracted way.  He had been thinking about his, _their_ approaching doom and wondering if there might not be options for avoiding it.  So far, the options he had come up with included running very far away, and. . . that was it.

“You _said_ ,” Aziraphale reminded him, “that you know what I smell like.  And I asked you what that is.”

“Oh. . . I don’t know, goodness and light I suppose.”  Crowley wrinkled his nose and wafted his hand through the air, then took another drink.  He had more important things concerning him at the moment.

Aziraphale, apparently, had not.

“Then you don’t like the way I smell?” he asked in that plaintive tone of voice he could wield so effectively.  Accompanied as it was by an equally effective worried gaze, the question implied that Crowley had somehow wounded the angel deeply, without offering Crowley any idea as to _how_.

“What?  I didn’t say that,” Crowley pointed out.  “Where did you get that from?”

“You’re a demon, you don’t like ‘goodness and light.’”

“Ugh, I didn’t mean you _literally_ smell like them—they don’t even _have_ a smell, just a feel, make me feel all squirmy—not a snakey squirmy, mind, but the bad kind of squirmy,” Crowley tried to explain.  Aziraphale’s worried gaze did not alter, so Crowley sighed and tried again.

“I only meant that you smell like you. . . are.  Good.”

Finally, Aziraphale lost the worried gaze.  He looked thoughtful; then he smiled.  It was the gentle sort of smile he had when Crowley did something that pleased him.  Crowley basked in it.

Still, all Aziraphale said was, “Well.  You still didn’t answer my question.”

“Oh, and I suppose if _I_ asked _you_ what _I_ smell like—”

“Cinnamon,” said Aziraphale.

“Cinnamon.”

“Yes, I rather think so.  It’s a subtle scent, very pleasant,” the angel mused.  Before Crowley could protest that nothing about demons, especially how they smelled, was meant to be _pleasant_ , Aziraphale presented him with another affront: “Except when you’re very angry.  Then the cinnamon smells. . . scorched.  Like—like burnt toast.”

“I do not,” growled Crowley, “smell like burnt cinnamon toast.”

“It could be worse.  You _could_ smell like sulfur,” Aziraphale retorted.  “And anyhow, I didn’t mean it’s that sort of a cinnamon smell—not so sweet as baked goods, I mean.  It’s rather. . . hotter.”

“Hotter.”

“Yes, like. . . .”  Aziraphale frowned, then broke out all over in a beam.  “Oh, I know, like those little candies!”

“Little candies.”

“Yes.  Cinnamon imperials, they’re called.  Bright red little things, burn your tongue.”  Aziraphale grimaced.

Crowley raised his eyebrows over his glasses and asked, “I make your tongue burn, then?”

Aziraphale huffed and ignored that.  “Anyhow, I’ve told you what _you_ smell like, so you can very well tell _me_.”

“Oh all _right_.”  Crowley braced his hands on the tabletop and pushed himself to his feet.  Aziraphale looked up at him, eyes wide with alarm as Crowley moved around the table towards him.

“What are you—oh!”  Aziraphale broke off when Crowley leaned down and pressed his face against his neck just, below his right ear.  Crowley closed his eyes and inhaled deeply the scent of the angel’s hair and skin.

“Uhm,” he said.

Aziraphale gave a tremulous little shiver and cleared his throat.  “Well?”

Crowley straightened up and tilted his head back in thought before announcing, “Frankincense, angel.  You smell like frankincense.”  Then he sneezed abruptly and added, “And dust.  Which doesn’t surprise me, considering the state you keep this place in.”  Crowley gave the table a disdainful glance as he sat down again.

When he looked back over at Aziraphale, the angel was wearing that pleased gentle smile again and rubbing the side of his neck.

“Satisfied?” Crowley asked.

“Yes.  Yes I am, rather,” said Aziraphale.  “Frankincense.  Imagine that.”

“Right.”  Crowley had been about to suggest they turn their attention to more crucial matters, but Aziraphale was still smiling, and Crowley didn’t want to take that smile away, not just yet.  Crowley leaned forward, and Aziraphale’s eyes—Crowley could never decide if they were blue or hazel or green or a muddle of all three—fixed on his, through his sunglasses.

“Yes?  Were you about to say something?” Aziraphale inquired.

“Yeah,” Crowley sighed, scooping up his empty glass and holding it out.  “Pour me another drink, angel.”

\--

The End


End file.
